I relate
to this black screen.
So defiant
In its emptiness.
Perfect in
Secret dimension,
Obelisk
Death.

I haven't picked up the pen
in quite some time

It seems as if I'm forgetting
that poetry is everything I used to be

Writing was my escape
And now I feel more than I can take

Now, I'm picking up the pen
Telling my emotions

Explaining the writers block that controlled me

I will finally start again

Me oh my, I can't help but ask why. Why am I stuck in a slump, thinking while seated upon my ****, I have no clue, no answer, no solution, how can I possibly come to a resolution?
I'm in need of eyes, but I've no idea how to catch them, I'm in need of ears, but I know no words to which people would lend them.
To touch a heart, to cause a smile, can I go the mile?
Where to start, when to depart, this is actually quite hard...

I have never starred at a blank page and never not known what to write.
Its like the words  no longer express my feelings, feelings that are no longer short phrases or poems of emotions.

My feelings  are inexpressible they have become so complicating.
I have mentally blocked out what was my outlet " Writing". I was once able to let out my emotions on a page and leave them there, But now its like I write an emotion and gain twice as much back.

I have lost my battle  and my strength to continue to try. As I sit here writing I realize that this may not make sense to anyone else but me. If you are reading this I have never wanted to make sense to anyone, because these are my feelings . I am just writing how I feel

To answer your question, it could be I stopped believing
years ago when I sent my friend before the chopping block.
Stop! I'll sell information for passage.
Stop! I'm scared to death of dying.
Where she lives.
Such a shame.
Where she hangs.
I'll take the blame.
Where she showers, even.
Stop! I'll give you the words you want if you make this hurting stop.
Stop! You don't have to crack my brain open with a hammer chop,
you don't have to use pliers to pry what you want from my head,
when you can listen to me talk freely, then take the message and run.
Where she lives.
Such a shame.
Where she hangs.
I'll take the blame.
So much will change.
Where she showers, even.

But if you call for me, I'll be there.
Wearing a straight face that's
driven me here, so insane, I don't
care how rapidly my conscience
eats the very strength on which
I stand. I'm alive without the will to live.
But if you call for me, I'll  be there.
Wearing a straight face.

From sleeping in streets to walking miles alone I have come to a direction the page just cannot follow my friends .
I have chased the bottom of a glass since I was fifteen and that was to far to be anything more than a blurred memory.

And to the times that seemed to matter.
Now only to those who haven't lived my existence a lone wolf knows no true  direction just simply howls to let the others know he does still exist.

Are words betray us and then eventually it all fades .
I'm not the act I'm the delusion that fueled a ego now left to wither a dead tree in a forest of many .

None will recall but far to many will simply use ******* when facts get in there way of a good story .

Tonight I sat under a full moon and howled as the wolves often do.

There was only silence that followed the eco .

Even the lost know there is no hope for the madness .
When your words betray you and only a dead tree remains.

Maybe another time the stars will find me in good favor .
And like those around tonight will listen and only stay silent to the lone wolfs howl.

It´s been raining for seven days
I just want to see the sky
A piece of me is out of place
I watch the clouds as they cry

Nothing matters now
I am going insane
Our sacred vow
Has fallen with the rain

It´s been raining for seven days
I just want to block it out
Standing on the street in a daze
Wishing for a drought

Nothing matters now
Who am I without you
The sky has forgotten how
To paint itself blue

It´s been raining for seven days
I just want to drown in this sea
You have fallen from grace
Was she more beautiful than me?

I stopped writing the day I left you
Because with 1300 miles to seperate us
I am slowly forgetting what it feels like
To feel gravity pushing on me through your body
Or to hear you whisper me to sleep

I quit singing in the shower
The moment I got on that plane
Because no bathroom echoes the way yours does
And no water can rinse you into me

I've been turning into something since that day
Something not made of my particles
And I think it has to do with
Them still sticking to your skin

My mind has been blank for years
I can no longer bleed on to the paper
I lost my ability to write
Expression has been foreign to me
Since I opened my veins to write about him
The wound festered and poisoned my brain
It took my sense of speech
My sense of beauty
My artistic gleam upon the world
I have yet to find an antidote
To the venom in my veins
The verses will have to stay concealed
Buried under my bones
Hymns trapped I the hinges of my heart
Hoping to one day spill onto the paper